Finlay replayed his last day on Earth, chatting with his co-workers while eating cake, something he couldn’t taste anywhere on Ilaya. He also minded speaking English and managing his accent. It was surreal speaking in English again.
Everything felt surreal.
They trashed their job and their bosses, a cathartic pastime. Sarah mentioned that she envied Finlay working on his grandfather’s farm. Derrick and Earl vigorously agreed. Leave the city, exit the rat race—the dream. Very different from the one they had when they graduated. Saying he’d need to finish tidying his cubicle, Finlay excused himself and headed to the restroom.
“I’m really back.” Finlay touched the mirror. He hadn’t seen this reflection in ages.
His pasty face from basking in a computer’s glow twelve hours a day, sometimes even fifteen, was the opposite of the battle-hardened and tanned appearance he’d gain in the Ilayan future. Scars were absent. His hair was neatly cut into a proper corporate style, distant from his wild unkempt hair as a Soulheart Warden leading refugees away from the invasion. His strong jaw was hidden by slight chubbiness. Stress eating used to be his hobby. He now realized that was a luxury.
Finlay tilted his head to examine his neck. Shivers went up his flank thinking about how he was almost decapitated. He patted his flabby stomach. No hole.
That was all real… Right?
Impossible that his twelve years on Ilaya were hallucinations. The people he met, the connections made, the life-and-death struggles, everything was as real to him as could be. He went through drastic changes there, both physical and mental. It almost felt that this world was the hallucination. As if he had been asleep his entire twenty-six years on Earth and had awoken only on Ilaya.
Was he taken over by the Sporeal Tide? Could they be playing illusions to keep enslaved hosts docile? A terrifying possibility. But very unlikely.
The Sporeal Tide could’ve shown him a fake paradise instead of this. He wasn’t feeling very docile at all.
And he was sure he died.
“The Caretaker—No. It was the World Tree. It talked to me. I don’t know how, but it caused this time travel.”
The World Tree gambled for a chance to save Ilaya. This chance fell on Finlay’s shoulders. He was supposed to return to Ilaya and plant a World Tree seed. That was the World Tree’s order. He had an inkling where to plant it; his journey to the other world wasn’t as much of an accident as he once thought.
“Eleven hours to go,” Finlay muttered, checking his phone. “Can I… stay on Earth?”
Not forever. He wouldn’t abandon Ilaya to its fate for it was his second home. He had to return there.
What about delaying his trip though? A few days, maybe a month.
He shook his head. Too risky.
The World Tree returned him to Earth. It didn’t have a hand in how he’d travel to Ilaya. He didn’t know if time on Earth and Ilaya flowed the same way. If he postponed his trip by a week, he might arrive ten years into the future of an Ilaya covered by mushrooms. He also didn’t know the conditions that allowed the portal to open.
The time? Weather? Phase of the moon? Change too many factors and he might not be able to leave Earth.
Moreover, Finlay hadn’t even met the World Tree yet. His time travel hinged on it. Returning to Ilaya was the part of the script that shouldn’t be changed to close the loop. He watched enough time travel movies to know about time paradoxes.
And if he stayed longer… he might not want to leave.
Exiting the restroom, Finlay ran into one of his supervisors. “Good morning, Mr. Melchor, sir,” he greeted the perpetually haggard, silver-haired man.
“Mr. Rasband? You’re still here? I thought you’ve already gone to greener pastures. Actual pastures at that.”
“My last day here, sir. I’m finishing the turnover of my accounts, and—”
“It’ll be the farm life for you, eh?” Mr. Melchor held out a hand.
Finlay blinked, hesitantly shaking it. “Yes, sir. I’ll be a farmer.”
“Farmers are important to society, Mr. Rasband. More important than me, I say. I get paid the big bucks. But farmers deserve it more, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Finlay replied. He could tell his boss was trying to make him feel better about quitting a well-paying office job for physical labor. Or more like patronizing him. The Mr. Melchor he knew wouldn’t agree to a farmer getting paid more than him.
“They say money is the lifeblood of the economy,” Mr. Melchor continued. “Not at all, Mr. Rasband. It’s food. All the money in the world is useless if there’s no food to buy.”
“I think the same way, sir.” Finlay had the experience to back it up. He had been so hungry that he boiled the inside of tree bark to survive. He would’ve done it with his leather boot too if Cassini hadn’t told him that tanned leather had next to no nutrients and he’d just waste a good boot.
Mr. Melchor tapped his watch. “Obligations await. I have a meeting to plan for another meeting that could’ve just been an email. I’m stuck in this circle of hell for the foreseeable future. How I wish to retire to a farm someday. Not as fertilizer, mind you. As for you, Mr. Rasband, good luck with your future endeavors.”
“Thank you, sir. I need that luck.”
After lunchtime—Finlay was still entitled to free lunch; he gorged himself in the cafeteria and drank too much coffee—he exited the office building.
No more coffee when he returned to Ilaya. He had headaches from coffee withdrawals in his early days there.
Finlay took a cab to the bus station. While the driver ranted about politics, Finlay stared outside the window at the life he used to have—the life he currently had that he’d leave behind again. He didn’t have long to dwell on it because he soon arrived at the station. From there, it’d be a three-hour journey to his grandfather’s farm in the mountains.
He completed packing up and cleaning his apartment yesterday, thank the World Tree. He’d rather fight the Sporeal Tide than redo that. The moving truck should’ve arrived at the farm by now. Part of him hoped his computer was fine after its long trip. It shouldn’t really matter because he didn’t have time to unpack, set it up, and play games. He wished he had. He had been looking forward to finally having a relaxing time just yesterday… and twelve years ago.
While scanning the scheduled bus trips, Finlay realized there was another place he should visit first. Checking the clock, he mentally calculated the hours. He didn’t want to risk changing when he’d leave Earth.
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“I still have time. I should have time.”
He boarded a different bus.
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“Hello, Mom,” Finlay said. This detour subtracted a couple more hours from his short stay on Earth, but he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t meet her.
A short woman sporting a slightly greying bun exited a large greenhouse. People inside fussed over potted flowers. “Finlay, honey. I wasn’t expecting you.”
The emotional barriers Finlay built through years of war broke at the sight of his mother. “Sorry for disturbing your gardening class,” he said, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. Tears threatened to roll.
They say soldiers cry for their mothers when facing death. That was true. He had seen it many times. And he experienced it himself once. In his first large-scale battle against the Sporeal Tide, their forces were massively outnumbered and surrounded. They underestimated the intelligence of the monsters. His cockiness from becoming a Dualinker Warden evaporated as dozens of panicked men squeezed him from all sides. He couldn’t even use the Soulhearts he proudly harvested himself because his anima was in turmoil. Helpless and with nowhere to flee, he remembered his mother.
Someone elbowed him in a scramble to the center of their forces as the monstrous slaughter tightened its noose. That knocked some sense into him. He roused the soldiers to break out of the encirclement, clutching to the hope of meeting his mother again someday. A mere handful of them got out alive.
Finlay was a changed man after that battle. The real fantasy world was very far from that in books and movies.
“I thought I’d drop by before going to Gramps.” He bent down to hug his mother. She jerked, surprised at his gesture. He usually wasn’t very expressive with his emotions.
“You could’ve visited some other time.” She hugged him back, turning away her gloved hands covered in dirt. “Spend a whole day here so your fare and travel time will be worth it.”
“Next time… yes.” Finlay picked up a stack of boxes, disguising wiping his tears in one motion. “This is the brand of cheese rolls you like, isn’t it? They have a store at the bus terminal. I probably bought too much. You can share it with your students.”
“Thank you, dear. I adore these. Come inside and eat with us.”
“Uh, I can’t. The bus schedule…” Finlay felt a stab of temptation to stay in this world. He pushed it away—he shouldn’t waste the chance the World Tree gave him. “Other than the gift, I came here to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” she asked, puzzled.
“I have to do this.” Finlay hugged her again and planted a kiss on her forehead. There was no one else but him.
He couldn’t explain all about Ilaya and the battles there. She’d think he became crazy from overwork. He probably was crazy. Leaving his safe life on Earth with plenty of food, comforts that even the royalty of Ilaya didn’t have, and, most importantly, no monsters. Yep. Crazy.
“Do what? Farming with your grandfather?” She reached up to pat his head. “You know I fully support your decision, honey. Don’t listen to what others say. It’s your life. Do what you have to do.”
“I’ll come home after.” He reluctantly let go. Another hidden tear wipe.
Finlay had tried to find a way to return to Earth from Ilaya. The Sporeal Tide could jump from world to world—proof that interdimensional travel could be controlled. As the war spread, staying alive became his priority. Many of the scholars he wanted to consult had died by then, their vast libraries lost, and no one could help him study about portals to Earth.
This time around, the World Tree proved itself to be Finlay’s return ticket. He should focus on eradicating the Sporeal Tide.
“Home?” asked his mother. “Are you planning to move back here someday? I’ll be delighted. It’s been lonely with your father’s passing. I have my classes and a flower shop, but it’s different to have family around. I’ll ask the ladies if they know someone selling farmland so we can start saving for it. Apply what you’ve learned from your grandfather.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Finlay paused, pensive, before adding, “I love you.” He rarely uttered those words to her. Or anyone.
“I love you too, son.” She gave him a look over. “You seem different. Are you finally being an adult?”
“I’ve… matured, I guess.”
“Took you a while,” she said, chuckling. “Now, go out there and save the world or something.”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
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Finlay fended off the sleep invited by the gentle rocking of the bus. He wrote all the important events that happened on Ilaya to refresh his memory and planned how to unite everyone. Once in a while, he glanced outside the window and took in the beauty of the places they passed. When he’d see them again, he didn’t know. His mind couldn’t help but stir to his last moments on Ilaya.
The dark creature of the Sporeal Tide told him, “And I will move to another world.”
If Finlay could travel to Ilaya, it wasn’t a stretch for those wretched mushrooms to reach Earth someday. He pictured the rolling hills covered by purple mushrooms, spewing black miasma. All the more reason to defeat the Sporeal Tide on Ilaya.
He clenched his fist as the bus entered a tunnel. Everything was on him. How was he supposed to save everyone? People better than him, real heroes, had failed.
Intense pressure piled as if he was getting crushed by the weight of the mountain the bus travelled under. In the darkness, he thought of retreating into his mind shrine to meditate and calm down as the Core monks taught him. Unfortunately, he had yet to construct his mind shrine and crucible. An impossible task in this world. There was no natura here—Earth didn’t breathe. The planet didn’t have a ‘lifeforce’ that flows outward from its core. No natura means no anima inside people to wield a fraction of the power of primal creation.
It wasn’t like he’d start from scratch, Finlay reasoned with himself. His body was back to zero, but he had the knowledge and experience stored in his head, including discoveries and advancements made during the war. He knew of pivotal events, his would-be allies and enemies, and mistakes he needed to right. He’d need every advantage he could get to change the future.
Two more hours until the village where Grandpa Swaney lived.
Working at the farm started as an impulse. On the verge of cracking after three days of no sleep crunching a project, Finlay searched for a retreat. His mother suggested their ancestral farm in the mountains. Once there, he fell in love with the place. Gramps encouraged him to learn about farming. Might as well. The physical labor part, though challenging at first, did wonders for Finlay’s physical and mental health. The seed of an escape plan from the urban jungle was planted.
Every weekend for the next four months Finlay worked at the farm. He left the city on Saturday, very early in the morning, and returned on Sunday, late at night. The trip was long but he slept on the way. Rather than get tired with his new routine and added work, he felt energized. Alive.
One day, everything clicked. He turned in his notice of resignation to no one’s surprise at the office. He stopped coming in on weekends, with the excuse of taking care of a sick grandfather far away. Not true, of course. They must’ve expected him to leave soon.
“I should’ve farmed in Ilaya,” Finlay said, watching the fields of swaying corn.
Ilaya was a fantasy world—the goal was to be a hero, Finlay adamantly believed. Main character syndrome. Not minding that he wasn’t a prophesied chosen one or gifted special abilities by gods. He didn’t unearth an ancient weapon or read a forbidden tome. Nothing. Yet, through grit, willpower, and a dash of ingenuity, he was surprised he possessed, he managed to get himself accepted as an apprentice of a Soulheart Warden. Eventually, he became a Warden himself, and the rest was history.
A very sad history.
It was only when he reached Aegis Forest that he thought of farming again. The crops of the goatkin were supercharged by the World Tree, multiplying their yield to miraculous levels. Without the bountiful harvest, it would’ve been impossible to feed the thousands of refugees.
The sun was setting by the time Finlay arrived at his destination. A thin line of orange peeked at the darkening horizon. It was cooler up the mountain.
Parked beside the bus stop was Grandpa Swaney’s beat-up pickup truck.
Finlay knocked on the truck’s window. The old man dozing inside stirred awake. Finlay opened the door and got on the passenger’s seat. “Gramps, you could’ve waited at the farm. I can walk there.”
“Gettin’ dark ‘round here, Finlay, my boy,” was his grandfather’s gruff answer. His white mustache wiggled whenever he spoke. “Light’s busted by that bowed oak. Three days now. Goin’ to complain to the council on the morrow. Whatcha got there?”
“Cheese rolls,” Finlay replied, presenting the box. He saved one from the stack he gave his mother. “These are pretty good. Something to celebrate this day of, uh, me officially moving here.”
“A jolly coincidence, this is. I got you a present for joinin’ the farm.” Grandpa Swaney slapped the glove compartment. It yawned open, revealing a small ornate box made of dark wood. “Take a guess what’s inside, my boy.”
“It’s small and looks expensive. A ring? An old coin?” Finlay was just pretending to guess. He already knew the correct answer—the seed of a World Tree.